


Seen This Room, Walked This Floor

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good morning,” a voice says, and Grantaire feels the bed dip with added weight. He cracks open an eye, and groans again against the white glare of daylight. It feels like his tongue is thick, his mouth stuffed with cotton-wool, and he can tell his voice is going to rasp from too many cigarettes. Everything hurts. <i>Everything.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Seen This Room, Walked This Floor

**Author's Note:**

> directly follows [1 AM.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/813104)

It feels like he’s coming back from the dead.

His face is buried in pillows that are his, but on a bed that isn’t, and that comfort doesn’t help alleviate the pounding inside his head. He tries to move, and his whole body lurches, threatening to upheave his stomach and all it’s contents. A pause, just for a moment, and like a belated thought crawling through his alcohol sodden brain, the pain hits. It's agonising, a sharp drag like someone is trying to tattoo onto his very bones, and it's all he can do just to lay there, clutching his wrist to his chest.

He groans, breathless in agony.

“Good morning,” a voice says, and Grantaire feels the bed dip with added weight. He cracks open an eye, and groans again against the white glare of daylight. It feels like his tongue is thick, his mouth stuffed with cotton-wool, and he can tell his voice is going to rasp from too many cigarettes. Everything hurts. _Everything_.

Fuck, he really forgot how shit a hangover was. It feels like the world has been yanked out from beneath him.

“Please tell me you’re the overgrown tiger known as Bahorel, and I haven’t gone home with a stranger again,” Grantaire says blearily, words mostly mumbling into the pillow.

“You’re an idiot,” The voice says.

“Morning, asshole,” Grantaire replies, and turns his head. He raises his hand to scrub at his face, but pauses when he see the cast, lip curling. There’s a rough sigh, and he manages to push himself upright, though it takes a moment for the world to stop spinning. “What the hell happened?”

“You had whatever painkillers they gave you at the hospital, then dragged yourself into every bar between there and here. I can only guess you drank your fucking body weight in alcohol. I’d be impressed,” Bahorel says, leaning his elbows on his knees. “But I’m not.”

Grantaire tenses, and shoots him a defensive look. 

“Are you going to lecture me?” He asks, warily. 

“You’re a grown ass adult. You want a lecture, go find Enjolras,” Bahorel says, glancing up and meeting his eyes. It’s only then that Grantaire notices the way Bahorel’s face is drawn, the dark bruising under his eyes, the way his hair is mussed where fingers must've tangled, pulled. Bahorel, who is big and loud, who takes up space with his words alone, who will start a fight because he’s bored, is quiet. He’s subdued. He looks _tired_.

“Have you slept?” Grantaire asks cautiously, glancing at the space next to him. It looks neat, unslept in.

“No, I had to stay awake to make sure some asshole hadn’t killed himself,” Bahorel responds, calmly, though there’s a tension to his shoulders Grantaire can’t ignore. His thoughts riot, mixing with emotions until he’s dizzy with the idea that Bahorel has been up all night because of him. He has enough decency to look ashamed, and enough sense to slide across the sheets, until he’s sitting behind Bahorel. He hooks his chin over his shoulder, moulds against his back. 

“You were worried,” He says quietly, as if it were a shared secret that neither wanted the world to hear.

“No shit,” Bahorel mumbles in return, and the tension loosens, slowly. 

“At least I didn’t puke all over your sheets,” Grantaire offers, shrugging.

“Thank fuck for small miracles,” Bahorel responds, roughly.

Belatedly, he realises that Bahorel has only ever seen him sober. He never saw the bottles that lined his kitchen, the excuses for late assignments and failed work, the way he would down sleeping pills with whiskey and think everything was okay. He missed the withdrawals and the shaking hands and cravings at 10 AM. He never saw the worst parts of Grantaire, the parts he buries and pretends aren’t still there, aren’t waiting for his tightly reigned control to slip.

Like it did last night.

But there’s something else lurking beneath Bahorel’s tense muscles. Grantaire knows it’s not because he turned up in the hours of the morning, because _my rules don’t apply to you_ ,  _asshole_. It isn’t the drinking, forcing Bahorel to abandon his plans, keeping him up all night. It isn’t even residual worry.

Grantaire knows, in that moment, what it is. Amid the murky thoughts of last night, the remnants of crying and drinking and comforting, he remembers almost voicing an idea, _an emotion_ , that he’s kept buried for months. He turns his head into Bahorel’s neck and mouths at his skin to avoid swearing at his stupidity.

Grantaire feels like he might shake apart. He doesn’t know when Bahorel became his rock. Doesn’t know when he turned from a client, to a beneficial friend, to the solid constant he is now. Here is a man who stayed awake all night to watch over him, a man who doesn't judge him for his relapse, just says _day one_ because that's what it is. He's fierce and rough, except when he's quiet and drawn with a worry he won't speak aloud. He's Grantaire's, and Grantaire is his, and that's _terrifying._

Bahorel reaches for the cigarettes lying on the bedside table, and Grantaire _isn’t_ clinging to him, but he’s close enough that there’s no space separating his chest from Bahorel’s back. It’s the first time their casual hasn’t felt casual. It feels like a fragile thing, _a potential_ , because Grantaire remembers Bahorel’s hand in his hair, and he remembers _I’m not going anywhere, not until we’re both done_. It’s acknowledged, for the first time and he can’t say any of this. He doesn’t know how to drown out the noise of his own insecurities.

So instead they don’t talk, and everything gets left unsaid.

Bahorel hands him one, and Grantaire takes it, and thank fuck he smokes with his left hand.  Except he does _everything else_ with his right, and that’s still useless. His hands don’t shake.

“What the hell am I going to do?” Grantaire asks, not to Bahorel in particular. The  _I_ can be easily changed for _we_ , and be same question.

“I didn’t know last night, and I still don’t,” Bahorel says anyway, answering both questions because he _knows_ , and Grantaire huffs out a breath against his neck. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever been more thankful for Bahorel’s lack of decorum. He’s blunt, honest, he has no time for bullshit and that’s reassuring. Because Grantaire doesn’t want someone to lie to him, hoping to make him feel better. “I can’t even punch your for your stupidity because it’s an unfair fight.”

Bahorel pulls away from him then, and Grantaire slumps forward, feeling the loss of warmth immediately. Bahorel gets to his feet, grabs the untouched beer on his way past, and steps from the room. Grantaire, unsteadier, follows. He looks down at his two hands. A cigarette is perched between two fingers on the left, smoke curling lazily, and the right is invisible, lost in the cast. He moves his fingers, one at a time, and it _hurts_. 

Bahorel empties the bottle into the sink, chucking it into the trash, and Grantaire watches him. It’s like watching a cat. 

“What _am_ I going to do, though? I mean, seriously,” He says, and Bahorel looks over, unimpressed. “Shut up. I mean, I can’t fucking tattoo like this, obviously. I’ve gotta pay shop rent, and apartment rent, and buy food and shit. I’ve got some money, but you know...”

Grantaire trails off then and chews his lip, working through the costs in his head, “My housemate is either going to hate me, kick me out, or both.”

“You could move in here,” Bahorel says around his cigarette, shrugging. 

Grantaire stops, double-takes, thinks that maybe he’s still drunk _(probably)_ or still passed out _(less likely, he doesn’t dream when he’s this drunk)_ or maybe he’s actually dead _(he can’t decide if Bahorel would be heaven or hell)_ , because _what_.

“Did you just ask me to move in with you?” He asks, cautiously, eyebrows knitting together.

“No,” Bahorel says, breathing out through his nose. “I asked you to move in here. You’re over all the fucking time anyway.”

It goes unacknowledged that Bahorel only has one bedroom, and Grantaire starts laughing, because this almost feels like hope.

Like potential.

It’s terrifying.

**Author's Note:**

> There's fanart for this part! [here](http://kherrigan.tumblr.com/post/52662254383) and [here!](http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com/post/51449903943)


End file.
